The Deserters
by Blake Broflovski
Summary: The robot named Tantrum is the ultimate weapon. Indestructible and nearly invincible, he is designed by Primus himself to be the supreme trump card between the Autobots and Decepticons, and end the war for good. But... which side is supposed to have him?
1. Designation: Tantrum

**THE DESERTERS**

**Chapter One**

**"Designation: Tantrum"**

20,000 leagues under the sea, there was no giant squid lurking in the shadowy deep. There was, however, a beast of equally enigmatic origin, as equally dreaded, and of equally horrific murderous tendencies. The creature's sole purpose on the planet Earth was to drain it completely dry, depriving it of every last ounce of energy that could be collected, and to brutally murder any native fauna that attempted to hinder him in this ambition. He was self-interested, unfeeling, bestial, and sadistic. Every organism unfortunate enough to meet him in person and live to talk about it never looked upon the world the same way again because of the ugly imprint left by the horrid totalitarian creature.

Soundwave, the navy and white radio-transformer, was not that creature.

Anyone might have been deceived, though, had they not met the real villain. Standing at four times the height of the average human and displaying no visible facial features, Soundwave possessed the highly convincing appearance of a heartless tyrant, by and large due to the aloof manner with which he carried himself and his seldom-broken silence. This moment, as he leaned against the bright violet wall within the raised docking bay of the _Nemesis_, was not an exception. His cohort Skywarp had learned better than to waste his efforts attempting to engage the radio-transformer in conversation. The resulting customary silence allowed Soundwave the time to gather his thoughts.

A Decepticon satellite had detected an extraterrestrial object hurtling toward Earth at a frightening speed. Despite their scientists' best hurried efforts to figure out what it was, nothing had been discerned. As time was running out and the object flew ever closer, the task of gaining insight fell to Soundwave, for his cassette spies, and Skywarp. The radio-transformer had dispatched Laserbeak to the sky, and was now leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed impatiently as Skywarp lingered behind him, restlessly pacing. Already, the space object's fiery tail was visible in the growing twilight.

Suddenly the red condor swooped out of the sky, squawking feverishly. Soundwave pressed the eject button on his chest, and Laserbeak instantly assumed his cassette form, soaring into the radio-transformer's open tape deck. Leaving the docking bay raised and opened, the navy Decepticon turned wordlessly to face Skywarp, and the next move was understood. The black and lilac jet seized the radio-transformer's arm, and the seeker warped them out of the docking bay in a flash of blue light.

Appearing at their destination in an opposing flash of pink, Soundwave quickly surveyed the room. There was Thundercracker, facing the computer monitor and pointedly ignoring the scene behind him. There was Starscream, cowed against the far wall, body language completely at odds with his dark grey face, which was contorted in a snarl of rage. And there, towering over him, was the silver and black form of the Decepticon commander. The figure's fusion cannon was aimed directly at his subordinate's face, only inches away from picking Starscream's nose in a rather ugly way.

"Not defying me, my _exhaust port!_" the silver tyrant was shouting menacingly. "I did not send Skywarp because he can _fly;_ I sent him because, as his name suggests, he can _warp_. Do not question my judgment, Starscream, especially right now – I do not have the time for your useless whining!"

Skywarp cleared his throat insistently. At the sound, the silver commander whirled, and an involuntary shudder passed through Soundwave's spark. This was the creature that every being, robotic or not, dreaded to see; this was the true monster of the deep, the certain future ruler of the universe. The commander forgot all about Starscream and swiftly approached the two new arrivals.

"Skywarp, you are finished for now. Soundwave," the cold voice ordered, pointing a black finger in the radio-transformer's direction as the dismissed seeker gave Thundercracker a nod and left, "play back Laserbeak's recording. I want to know what that space thing is."

"As you command, Lord Megatron," the navy Decepticon replied in a mechanical drone, transforming into his alternative mode and plugging into the computer monitor. Images, sounds, and data streams flashed over the monitor until the radio located the appropriate files in Laserbeak's storage – a highly magnified image of the object, with a statistical readout overlaying it. There was a sudden hushed silence until Starscream, who had picked himself up from the wall and followed on his commander's heels, blurted in confusion.

"What is that?"

Megatron squinted at the air commander as though he had the intelligence of a sparkling. "_That_ is our incoming celestial object, you ignorant sack of lug nuts."

Starscream shot his commander a look of pure loathing. "Contrary to popular belief, o fearless leader, I'm not actually stupid. I realize that is the 'incoming celestial object.' But what _is_ it?"

"Screamer, just read the statistics," Thundercracker groaned exasperatedly. The air commander turned his glare of loathing to his fellow seeker, probably irked at having been referred to by that hated nickname, but complied without further outburst. There was a short but loaded silence as the three Decepticons processed the data being shown to them, trying to connect it to the image of the object. Soundwave watched them with condescending amusement. It didn't seem that difficult to figure out; it was clearly a robot, folded into a cocoon, and based on its alloy density, it had to be Cybertronian in origin. He didn't understand the need to hash about and marvel over this information.

At last, the commander spoke. "Where is it supposed to land, Soundwave?"

The radio whizzed through the cassette's data, pulling up Laserbeak's anticipated trajectory for the object. "Projected landing site: American historical location 'Meteor Crater,' within Arizona, Sonora Desert," the navy Decepticon stated monotonously. "Estimated time until landing: T minus thirteen minutes and five seconds."

"Excellent," the commander replied. "Starscream, Thundercracker –we will leave now, so that we will reach the site as this thing is landing."

"But I can't fly as fast as Screamer can," the pale blue seeker objected, wanting to stay as far away from that thing falling from the sky as possible. His commander merely shot him a look similar to the one he'd received from Starscream moments ago, and the jet tried a new tack. "Why do we have to go pick it up anyway? What's so special about yet another robot?"

The commander's optics flared scarlet, and Thundercracker recoiled. "We don't know what's so special about it, cretin," the cold voice growled, "and that's why we're going after it. You had better watch your step, because in questioning my orders, you are treading on very thin ice." Thundercracker nodded; he knew better than to take another metaphorical step. "Starscream will transport Soundwave," Megatron continued, "and you will transport me. Not being planes, we cannot fly fast enough alone. Starscream, you will follow Soundwave's direction and lead the way." With that, the silver commander transformed, and the blue seeker had no choice but to follow his lead, catching the gun in his cockpit as he chased Starscream's trail through the _Nemesis_ and out the open docking bay.

The pair of jets blazed through the sky, Thundercracker lagging behind his air commander by a few meters, making fast time to Arizona. Very soon, however, Thundercracker's sensors indicated an incoming entity – closing in _fast_. Before he could give the other Decepticons any kind of warning, an object burned over their heads, tearing straight past them and heading for a large crater visible below. "Follow it!" the commander shouted, and the jets began to dive. As they neared the ground, Starscream opened his cockpit hatch, and the other seeker followed suit. Megatron and Soundwave hopped out of their rides, and the four robots transformed into their respective humanoid shapes, using the afterburners in their feet to soften their landing. The object had blown up a huge cloud of dust and left a long skid mark in the otherwise flawless crater.

The Decepticons approached the end of the object's long tract, and as they grew nearer, the object became more and more recognizable as the subject of the image Laserbeak had taken. Now, though, it had been scorched by coming through the planet's atmosphere, and the metal had been badly warped and even broken from the impact of landing. Regardless, it was still quite plain that the Decepticons were staring down at a fifth robot, curled into a fetal position, looking rather like a human mummy.

Starscream regarded the smoldering lump of twisted, charred metal with disgust. "What is that?"

"Haven't we been through this already?" Thundercracker sighed, light blue shoulders slumping in frustration. Megatron ignored the seekers, taking an uncertain step closer to the smoking wreck of a robot, and Soundwave joined his leader, standing by his left side.

Without removing his ruby optics from the mess before him, Megatron inclined his silver helmeted head slightly toward the navy radio-transformer. "Has it been destroyed, do you think? Could Hook repair it at all?"

"Current scan reveals the presence of numerous operative weapons," the radio droned. "We have no knowledge of its origins, nor do we know its purpose. Salvaging it could pose too serious a hazard."

"Well! If it's truly that dangerous, Soundwave, we cannot give the Autobots the chance to seize it!" the Decepticon commander exclaimed, stepping onto the edge of the long ditch that the space robot had created. Soundwave rolled his optics; that the tyrant would fail to heed his subordinates' advice was not only common, it was a frequent source of Decepticon defeat. He squatted to gain a better view of the crumpled heap, muttering absently, processor racing. Soundwave's shadow appeared over his left shoulder. "I wonder," the commander murmured, "if it can still even function…"

The mellow male voice made everyone, even the imperturbable Soundwave, jump in surprise. "Energon converter and cerebral processor: functional," it said. "Commencing analysis of systems. Central processor: ten percent and stable. Navigational system: enabled. Oral circuits: enabled. Stasis lock chip: activated. All other systems temporarily disabled."

The Decepticons took a moment to process this turn of events. The robot, who had just been nearly incinerated in Earth's atmosphere, was alive and functioning. It could talk to them – well, no, that wasn't quite right. Its central processor, which was at its lowest possible input, could talk to them, but the robot was temporarily locked in stasis, which meant its consciousness, its personality, was not engaged. Its brain was talking to them while the robot itself was in a coma.

Taking this new development in stride, Megatron began to question the unconscious robot. "What is your name, your rank?"

"Rank: uncertain," the robot replied in a voice almost as monotonous as Soundwave's. "Is yet to be obtained. Designation: Tantrum."

A feral gleam passed through Megatron's optics at the name. "Tantrum," Megatron queried, relishing the sound as if tasting it, "where are you headed?"

"Navigational processor indicates destination: Earth has been achieved."

"Yes, but where are you going now that you have landed?"

"Subsequent destination: unknown," the smoldering pile of metal replied coolly.

Hm. A dead end. Frag. The commander took up a new sequence of questions. "Where do you come from, Tantrum?" he inquired of the charred metallic form.

"Origin: Vector Sigma, Cybertron."

The commander exchanged glances with the two seekers, whose bright red optics were widened in a silent surprise similar to Megatron's own, but without the commander's brutish twist. Soundwave continued to stare forward at the newcomer through his stoic crimson visor.

"You were made by Vector Sigma? Hmm…" Vector Sigma was the supercomputer that, according to legend, had created all sentient life known to Cybertron, including the planet itself. Megatron's processor began to whir with ideas. "Who programmed Vector Sigma to create you?"

"Sentient creator: Designation: Primus."

And _that_ was the hot material. They were on a roll now. Megatron's questioning became more fervent. "Why? Why did Primus create you? What is your purpose here on Earth?"

The answer from the unconscious robot's processor was aggravatingly brief and enigmatic. "Function: weapon."

Turning to squint confusedly over his shoulder at Starscream, who answered with a nonplussed shrug, Megatron demanded, "Weapon? What do you mean, 'weapon'? Whose weapon?"

"Designation of intended commander: unknown. Allegiance of intended commander: unknown. Processor's current limitations are uncertain of response expected of additional inquiries."

"He doesn't know what you're asking," Starscream translated.

Megatron whirled irately. "Yes, I understood that. Contrary to popular belief, I too am not actually stupid." The air commander snarled but said nothing. "Perhaps, if you are so intelligent, you can get it to say something that makes sense."

Starscream uncrossed his arms to place his hands on his hips, raising an optic ridge and sustaining his cold silence. Conversely, Soundwave, in one of his occasional moments of voluntary speech, stepped forward and crouched down beside his commander. "State the purpose for Earth being your selected destination, under the conditions of your function as a weapon."

"Purpose for voyage to Earth: ensure victory of the proper allegiance by serving as primary battle force."

This time it was the radio-transformer who exchanged a glance with the leader of the Decepticons, and Megatron looked sadistically pleased. "Thank you, Soundwave," he said, pointedly placing emphasis on this rare display of courtesy to rub it in his air commander's face. "We are taking him with us. We have learned all we need to know."

"Elaborate," Soundwave requested, and Thundercracker stepped closer to better observe the charred metal form lodged in the ground, hardly believing it was capable of speech in its present state and wondering how they were going to transport it. Starscream maintained his detached façade, but listened intently as Megatron spoke in a very hushed voice, as if afraid the robot's remains would hear him.

"This robot was created by Vector Sigma, by Primus himself. Primus – the being whose processor constitutes the core of our home planet. Now which side, Decepticon or Autobot, do you suppose Primus would want to win the war?" This question hung heavy in the air, the answer so evident it did not need to be spoken aloud. Megatron nodded as if to confirm this obviousness. "Exactly," he said, even more quietly than before. "The reason this robot is strong enough to survive the crash, the reason he is equipped with so many deadly weapons, is because he is programmed and designed to eliminate us, and to do it quickly and efficiently. But he has no idea that he is right now talking to the party he is intended to defeat. Were we to take him right now, he would never know the difference; all he knows is this basic programming." Megatron gave a bestial grin, the likes of which would never have been exhibited by any being that called itself Autobot. "Primus has, in this ignorance, just sealed his own defeat… and we have just gained the ultimate weapon."


	2. A Weapon's Mantra

**DISCLAIMER**(because I forgot it in chapter 1)**:** The only characters in this story that are my own creations are **Tantrum, Sylvan, Scout** and **Vendetta**. All other characters are the property of **Hasbro & Takara.** Like all other TF fan-writers, I merely wish I could have created them.

**A NOTE ON TIME: ** I'm using units of time as defined by IDW, which are, give or take a donut, as follows:

"nano-klik" = 1 Earth second, "klik" = 1 minute, "cycle" = 1.25 hours, "deca-cycle" = 3 weeks, "stellar cycle" = 7.5 months. Additional units are "breem" = 8 minutes, and "vorn" = 83 years. Good luck translating.

**Chapter Two**

**"A Weapon's Mantra"**

Starscream pushed through the violet door and strode into the medbay, shoulders thrown back in his trademark sophisticated strut. Megatron's silver and red back was turned to the doorway, and around his right side, Starscream could see two of the Constructicons, engineer Scrapper and medical officer Hook, on the far side of the table. At the sound of the air commander's entrance, the Decepticon leader glanced over his shoulder at the door; seeing Starscream, his optics widened and he slid around the side of the table so that its contents were visible to the seeker.

Megatron spoke to the lemon-lime mech beside him. "Isn't he magnificent?" he murmured, turning his admiring glare to Starscream. It took the seeker one very confused moment, torn between his vanity and his personal experience, to realize that his commander was talking about the object on the table.

The robot was barely recognizable as the lump that had landed in Meteor Crater. All traces of damage were gone – the charred bits had been scraped off, the warped and bended sections of metal had been smoothed and straightened, the pieces that had broken off had been welded and soldered back into place, and the armor plating had been buffed to a beautiful shine. Rather than the ugly, burned black it had been before, the robot's body was a spotless pale gold, with features of pure gold and silver. Not for the first time, Starscream internally commended the scientists for their brilliance. The robot looked so new and shiny, he might have just walked out of the manufacturer. He was, as Megatron had so aptly stated, magnificent.

Starscream was speechless except for a short "Wow." The jet strode over to take Megatron's former station around the table, staring up and down the prone form of their new robot. It was now easy to understand why his central processor had stated "weapon" as his function, and not anything else – the robot's body was littered from head to toe with fighting tools of every imaginable type and size. Long, straight blades caressed the black thighs, folded against the slender beige shins, protruded from the golden ankles and silver feet, and one deadly-looking curved blade slid out of the right elbow. Even the fingers, rather than adopting the blunted humanoid look, were smooth, knuckleless shapes that tapered into needle-like points. Enormous cannons, with barrels big enough that Starscream could probably shove his head inside one, were tucked vertically against the robot's back, and a gun was mounted on each pale gold calf, at the moment pointing up at the back of the robot's knees, but looking as though they would swivel forward when needed. Another much smaller gun was raised out of the robot's right forearm. Starscream wondered what the purpose for such a small weapon could be when the robot possessed numerous others of much larger size.

Perhaps the most striking was the robot's head. If Starscream had not known Tantrum was supposed to be an Autobot, he would have immediately assumed the robot's allegiance was Decepticon. The robot's helmet was made of horns – four long, deadly-looking spikes hugged the curves of the robot's cranium, giving the helmet its upper rim, and two more much smaller horns protruded from the crown of its head, like a human widow's peak. Instead of having any sort of cap, plate, or vent where a human's external ears would be, another two horns poked out and pointed backward, and yet an additional pair stuck out of the bottom of the helmet, aiming forward, like tusks. Even the robot's facial features were menacing. The optics, which were a dull gray since the robot was still in stasis lock, were slanted and narrow; the nose was pointed and sinister; the mouth, even through the robot's comatose state, was upturned in a barely-there malicious sneer.

Starscream managed to contain an involuntary shiver. That thing _definitely_ did not look like an Autobot.

Scrapper had been discussing Tantrum's vast array of weaponry with the commander while the jet had been studying the newly repaired body. Realizing there was a conversation taking place, the seeker directed his attention to the words coming out of the Constructicon's vocalizer.

"The proximal half of his upper arms split open along this line," the engineer was saying, drawing a line between what would have been the unconscious robot's bicep and tricep. "Two blades slide out from within the shoulder and chest area, reaching the length of the entire upper arm. That elbow blade and this smaller gun–" Scrapper pointed out the pea shooter on the robot's right forearm "–are also normally tucked within the body, hidden from view. That gun, though," he chuckled, wagging his finger at the weapon in question, "is quite the enigma. I can't figure what it uses for fuel, but I can tell you that this little sucker will pack quite an ugly punch; it's a flamethrower."

That caught Starscream's full attention. His optics snapped up to stare slack-jawed at the scientists, but Hook was already retracting his cohort's statement. "Well… 'flamethrower' isn't quite correct. It's more like a super-compressed, pure form of heat, not necessarily flames, per se. If we want to learn more about it, we'll have to get him to activate it once I unlock the stasis chip."

Regardless, Starscream thought, that gun was invaluable. Extreme temperatures were the only thing that prevented a Cybertronian's armor from regenerating, and heat was definitely more effective than cold.

The engineer continued his explanation of Tantrum's weapons. "The wrist joints dislodge from the arms, allowing limitless rotation of the hands, like circular saws," he said. "The legs have a middle segment, which extends from within the thighs, the main structure of which is a single titanium rod with another bar attached at a perpendicular angle. These perpendicular rods have 180 degree rotation, swinging from pointing straight backward to directly forward. On the ends of these swinging rods is a propeller, which can tilt on these rods, with a capability of almost 360 degrees. They move completely independently from one another, allowing the blades to reach any angle. Anything gets too close, and WHACK." Scrapper chuckled maliciously as the medical officer mimed being decapitated.

Megatron seemed savagely pleased. Conversely, Starscream, while impressed, was growing impatient.

"This is all – believe me – quite fascinating, Lord Megatron," he cut in, "but you called me down here now, in the middle of the night, and I want to know why I had to interrupt my recharge."

"You think he is… 'fascinating,' Starscream?" the commander inquired in mock interest, leaning on the table and ignoring the request for information.

"Exceedingly fascinating, yes," the seeker admitted after a moment's pause, lightly brushing cerulean fingertips down the unconscious figure's pale gold arm. "The desire to see what all those blades and guns could do in combat is quite… intense."

"Good," the commander replied. "And that is why I called you down here. He is your responsibility."

The seeker's dark gray face scrunched in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Megatron's unnerving grin grew wider. "Your display of transporting his body back to the _Nemesis_ was… inspiring," he said, and Starscream rolled his optics at the word, knowing it had been chosen as a mockery. The seeker had hauled the robot to Decepticon headquarters by wedging his landing gear in the robot's charred exterior. It had been positively painful. "He 'fascinates' you, and he is capable of learning something from you… as you clearly are from him. As the commander of this faction, I cannot afford to donate my attention to babysitting. Therefore, I entrust him to your care. You will take him with you everywhere you go until it becomes plain that he is capable of functioning on his own, and the two of you will share quarters. A second berth is being placed in your room as we speak."

Starscream hadn't been pleased with the commander's orders, but at the last statement, he became downright furious. He struggled soundlessly for words for a moment, and then he screeched, "_What?_ You're making _me_ babysit? Me, Starscream! Well I'm not fooled, I know what this is! You don't trust me. You think I'm insubordinate."

"And you are," Megatron agreed, but Starscream continued as though he had not been interrupted.

"You aren't entrusting him to me, you're entrusting _me_ to _him!_ You're going to have him keep tabs on me, report everything I say back to you, so that you can keep an eye on me without sacrificing any of your time. And you're appointing _him_ to the task because he's the only robot who is at all battle-savvy enough to stand a chance against me, should I attempt something. I can't even have my own quarters anymore! This is madness; this is an outright invasion of my privacy!"

"If you admit that I have a reason to disperse a twenty-four hour spy for you, Starscream, then you ought to have no privacy for me to invade."

"I said no such thing!" the jet shrieked indignantly. "I will not be your babysitter, I have bet–"

The rest of the seeker's sentence was cut off by a huge black hand delivering a swift punch to his throat, dislodging his vocalizer, and then by that hand seizing his neck in a vice grip. Coughing and gasping, the jet scrabbled uselessly at the fingers that choked him, preventing his vocalizer from realigning, as Megatron lifted Starscream off the ground, slammed his back into the bright purple wall, and jammed his fusion cannon into the side of the jet's head. "Listen, you mutinous slag-eating scum," he growled, placing their faces only inches apart. "You _will_ do as I say, or I _will_ have the weapon dispose of you the instant he awakes from stasis! Don't flatter yourself thinking that I can't replace you; if you have any doubt of your expendability, just take a look at that operating table!" Starscream glanced angrily at the prone figure of the pale gold robot, whose stasis locking chip Hook was overriding. "As a born Autobot, he is unable to fly, but I would bet he is talented enough with those guns to compensate for that little setback. From this moment forward, if you get in my way, all I have to do is let that weapon loose on you. Then," he muttered, releasing his choking grip on the seeker's throat, "you can kiss your sorry reactor linkage goodbye."

The commander turned his back, and Starscream bared his teeth in an enraged snarl, but as his vocalizer was still dislodged, he had to remain silent. With a thrumming noise, Tantrum's processor rose to full power, and all his systems came online. By Hook's help, the robot sat upright and spun to dangle his slender legs off the table, and his optics lit up a blazing purple, exactly the color of the walls in the _Nemesis_. It was the halfway point between blue – the Autobots' dogmatic good – and red – the Decepticons' absolute evil. Starscream realized then that laying claim to the weapon had not been enough; Tantrum would still have to choose his side on his own.

Apparently the commander had realized this as well. Megatron was the first to speak to the newly awakened robot. Having decided to ignore Starscream, whose vocalizer gave a high-pitched whine as it repowered, he moved over to the table. "Tantrum?" he murmured, standing before the sitting form, and the robot rotated its head to turn its wide, scorching optics to glare at the commander. "Do you remember my voice?" There was silence for about half a klik, and if the robot considered the question at all, its face, expressionless but strangely feral, betrayed nothing. Eventually, the fearsome horned head nodded slowly. "Do you remember our conversation at all?" Again, there was a short, weighted silence, followed by a slow nod. The silver tyrant's grin reappeared. "Good, good," he said. "Tantrum… I am Megatron. I am the commander you were designed to fight for, the commander of the Decepticons. Do you understand?"

The nod came earlier and was quicker this time, and against the wall, Starscream's mouth fell open. Megatron was going to lie to the weapon outright to gain his alliance? That shouldn't really have been so shocking, considering the commander's nature, but all the same, Tantrum _was_ designed to kill him…

"Excellent," the tyrant said, bending at the waist to reach the sitting robot's optic-level and speaking in a cold, even voice. "Now… listen carefully. You were created, and you are programmed, to be a weapon. A weapon's purest and only instinct is to kill its enemies. This is all it knows, all it wants, all it desires, and it does not question these urges. A weapon acts on impulse, and nothing makes a weapon happier than bloodshed. Death, destruction, havoc, pain – this is a weapon's mantra."

The pale gold robot nodded again, more swiftly and immediately. "Here is the situation on Earth, Tantrum," Megatron continued. "The Decepticons are at war against the peace-loving Autobots. But this world has no room for peace, not when there is a weapon like you, born and intended to kill, simply because it can. Do you see?"

The nod came with just as much pause, and just as slowly, as it had the first time.

"Your function is described as 'weapon;' if you wish to fulfill this role, you must unleash all of your hatred and anger, all of your primordial desires to kill. Unlock the wellspring of your yearning for butchery, and use it. Use it for us; help us to emerge victorious. It is your purpose, it is your purest, rawest instinct, and it is what you were born to do. Release it… and wield it, like the weapon you are."

The silence seemed to drag on for breems, but soon enough, the gold robot's frightening head gave its slowest nod yet, and the optics turned to a fiery scarlet.

The commander's grin had never been so terrible. "Excellent, Tantrum," he murmured, "excellent." He stood upright and glanced back at the seeker, leaning sulkily against the wall. "This is your partner, Starscream," the warlord stated. "He is the commander of my air brigade. He will train you in the Decepticon lifestyle and acquaint you with your fellow warriors. You are not to leave his sight until I give instructions otherwise; hopefully, this will not take long." Tantrum raised an optic ridge in agreement to that last. "The two of you will bunk together; as the _Nemesis_ has reached its maximum occupant capacity, we have no extra quarters for you. I am sure Starscream will not be too much of a bother," Megatron added, glaring over his shoulder at the seeker with this comment, which was plainly more of a warning than an offhand statement.

Starscream picked himself up from the wall, seized Tantrum by the arm, and stormed silently out of the medical bay, internally seething with rage. As he practically dragged the reticent weapon down the plum-colored corridor toward the mess hall, his thoughts drifted quickly toward mutiny, overthrowing Megatron and taking his place. Nobody would dare disturb his solitude then.

His thoughts were snapped back to the present situation when the gold robot began to insistently tug his arm in Starscream's grasp. The seeker glanced at the weapon and saw his optics widened in an intense expression; whether pain or anger, the jet could not tell. Then he realized the problem.

"I'm holding your arm too tightly, aren't I," he inquired, but it wasn't so much a question as a bland statement. The robot nodded, optic ridges raised, as if to say, "Oh, you think?" Starscream loosened his grip but did not release his beige companion. Frag the late hour, he was in desperate need of some high-grade; Megatron had said something to Tantrum that had frightened the jet down to his laser core, and fear was an emotion that made the seeker's energon converter lurch with nauseous self-loathing. Megatron made that fear rise in him much more often than he liked to admit (which was at all).

Starscream tugged the taciturn weapon through the doorway and into the darkened, silent mess hall, punching a button in the wall that activated the lights. Leading the weapon down an aisle toward the bar on the far end of the hall, the seeker allowed him to soak in the sight; apart from the medical bay, this was the first room in the _Nemesis_ that he'd seen. The Decepticons certainly took the term "mess hall" literally. Tables had been overturned and blown in half, trash littered the floor, chairs had been thrown and stuck in the wall at odd angles – judging by the cluster pattern a bunch of them were in, it looked like some of the Decepticons had taken up a spin off the human game of darts. The atmosphere in this room was so much different than the rest of the _Nemesis_, it might have been a different ship altogether. Starscream liked it. More than any other, even his own quarters, this room felt like home.

Finally releasing his hold on the gold robot's arm, Starscream deserted Tantrum at the front of the bar and slid around the back, immediately producing a clear plastic cube and dropping it on the metallic surface of the counter. Then he procured some large beakers filled with glowing liquids of pink and purple, and began to pour both simultaneously into the plastic cube. After mixing his drink and taking a sip, the seeker noticed the gold weapon observing him curiously.

"What?" he snapped peevishly, and the gold robot pointed at the glowing fuchsia liquid, optic ridges bunched together. "It's energon," the jet explained, less irritably, but not much so. "This kind's called high-grade. We drink it because our bodies use it as fuel, and we need to replenish what we lose, even just from our day-to-day functions." He reached over the bar and, placing an azure finger under the weapon's chin, tilted his head upward, exposing the veins in his silver neck, and gently poked one. Tantrum jumped at the touch on such a sensitive area, likely one that he hadn't even realized was there. Starscream smirked, and it wasn't entirely annoyed now. "See?" he said, leaning on the bar.

Slurping at the fuchsia liquid within the plastic cube, Starscream regarded his counterpart carefully. The weapon was shorter than the seeker; the spines on the top of his head barely reached the jet's dark gray chin. For the second time, he managed to suppress a shudder at the sight of Tantrum's head. The horns were even more unnerving now that the robot was awake and moving around, and with the optics lit up rather than deactivated and blank, the face was _definitely_ not friendly. The seeker could not imagine what those optics would look like if they had turned blue. Regardless, the cruel, angular features had managed to adopt a countenance of innocent curiosity.

The seeker was calming down in spite of himself, though not without aid from the energon. He was beginning to understand the expression on the robot's face. "Would you… like some?" he inquired, and the animosity in his tone was almost gone – as gone as it could get for Starscream, in any case. "I'm sure you need it after getting cooked in the atmosphere."

Tantrum stared the seeker straight in the optic and nodded wordlessly, a smile gracing the mean little mouth. Reaching for another plastic cube, the jet caught himself before his own lips could mimic the gesture. What was he doing? This weapon was bound to replace him as the most deadly Decepticon on Earth, bound to steal his spotlight, his position, his glory! He had already stolen half of his quarters!

And yet…

Starscream mixed a second cube of high-grade and pushed it across the bar to the gold robot, who nodded his appreciation and drank deeply. The jet watched, smirking in anticipation. Immediately, the robot's optics widened, and he coughed once, twice, three times. The seeker let out a small chuckle. "It's quite potent," he stated, "but you'll get used to it, I assure you." His words fell on deaf audio receptors; the weapon was already gulping down a second mouthful.

After the two had finished, Starscream led the weapon to their quarters, still gripping his arm. Within the room – which was larger than usual for private quarters, thank Primus – there was already a second berth, and it was obvious which one was new. The one on the far wall was still shining; the same could not be said of the battered berth by the door. It was indented down the middle from having held the same occupant for so long, and it was covered with innumerable burns, scratches, and energon stains.

The jet immediately flopped down inside his berth, folding his arms behind his head and expelling waste air in a sound resembling a human sigh. Tantrum surveyed the room, very much aware of the seeker's scrutinizing optics on the back of his head. The several gouge marks above him, and along the walls, had residual energy traces identical to the energy signatures of the seeker's null rays. Apart from the berths, the burns in the walls and ceiling, and a small circular portal window, the room was completely bare. Silently, save for the clinking of his small silver feet on the floor, he treaded across the quarters to sit in his own berth. Something was troubling the jet; his processor readings were frenetic. After a moment's consideration, the weapon decided that if Starscream wanted him to know about his issues, he would have spoken. He lay down on his side, closed the berth's lid, and sank into a recharging stasis.

Sprawled over his old, worn-out berth, the jet was indeed internally struggling. Outwardly, the weapon didn't seem to be too much of a hassle. He hadn't been domineering or manipulative; in fact, he had been totally silent, and almost totally compliant. But that one thing… that one comment that their leader had made… he had introduced Starscream as his "air brigade commander." Not the higher rank, not his usual title, not his "second in command." He had been presented as the head of the fliers, not as Megatron's right-hand man. Whatever the commander might have given as his reasons for keeping Tantrum and the seeker together, one thing was now certain in the jet's mind… Starscream was being traded in, and he was being forced to train his own replacement.

If Megatron could concoct a more effective form of torture, Starscream dreaded to see it.


	3. Target Practice

**Chapter Three**

**"Target Practice"**

Tantrum's first morning on the _Nemesis_, Starscream was lifted from stasis by the berth's glass lid abruptly coming open, and by his new bunkmate shaking his shoulders. Activating his optics and grumbling in frustration, it took the jet a few moments to notice that the weapon's expression was vexed, and he was pointing frantically at something, though remaining quite wordless. Sitting up slowly, the seeker followed the pale gold arm's fervent indications, and ended up squinting out the circular window. A fish casually swam by, not noticing a thing.

"What?" the seeker inquired grumpily, standing and striding toward the window, looking through it for anything abnormal. Then, with a widening of the scarlet optics, he realized what the issue was. He turned his slightly-less-aggravated face to his anxious bunkmate. "The _Nemesis_ is underwater," he explained. "We had gathered enough energy to fly back to Cybertron, but one of those blasted Autobots decided to shoot our reactor, and we crashed here, in the Pacific Ocean." The robot's face softened in comprehension, and he joined the seeker at the window, peering into the blue waters.

The day had barely begun, and Starscream already knew that his life here – and possibly everywhere – had drastically changed for the worse.

That prediction did not fail to persevere throughout the rest of Earth's daylight. Starscream's morning high-grade was interrupted by none other than the silver commander himself, who brought with him one of the most awful pieces of news the seeker could have anticipated. Megatron had organized an impromptu training session on the mainland, and everyone, excepting the Stunticons, who were supposed to guard the _Nemesis_, was required to attend. This, of course, meant that the seeker would be responsible for transporting his ward, who was not flight-capable, to the practice site and back. By the time the commander strode away sneering, the jet was ready to pound his head through the countertop of the metal bar in frustration.

But the odd thing was Tantrum himself. The gold robot reached out a slender hand toward the seeker, and Starscream had jerked away, hissing, before he had realized the intention of his bunkmate's gesture – an attempt at a consoling pat on the arm. Rebuffed but not betraying any hurt, if he felt any, the pale weapon settled for a shrug, and attempted to make his menacing face look sympathetic. He came quite close to succeeding; the new expression was almost more unnerving than his ordinary stony glare. The effort for compassion from such a naturally hostile creature was enough to compel the seeker to speak.

"Thanks," he offered, and the weapon replied with a smile that, though it still channeled his inherent sinister countenance, was by and large appreciative. The jet felt complied to explain. "Don't take offense," he said. "It's just that, well… nobody touches me." The weapon's smile bloomed into an outright playful grin, displaying rows of serrated silver teeth. If not for the jagged, pointy fangs, his goofiness just might have been believable. It was almost enough to make Starscream chuckle. Almost.

"We'd better get to the docking bay," the jet announced, gulping down his remaining mouthful of high-grade, and he started for the door with the golden weapon on his heels. The seeker let out a stream of waste air in a sound similar to a frustrated sigh, carelessly shoving a purple chair out of his path. Behind him, the weapon gazed at it as they walked past.

The moment they entered the corridor, Starscream was immediately ambushed by two similar-looking figures, one of whom went so far as to wrap an arm tightly around the air commander's neck. A shriek that could have easily been either rage or surprised panic wrenched itself from the red and gray seeker's vocalizer. The other two jets laughed derisively; the blue and white one kept his arm locked around Starscream's neck, and the black and lilac one shoved Starscream's pale waist.

Neither of them anticipated the loud whining from charging weapons, or the pale gold cannon barrels pressed flat against their heads.

Tantrum, who had been taken completely by surprise, had the instantaneous instinct of protectiveness toward his temporary caretaker. Before either of the new arrivals had time to discover his presence, Tantrum had flipped his twin back-mounted cannons to rest on top of his shoulder plating, and had slammed one barrel against each winged mech's black helmet. The blue one panicked and, releasing his hold on Starscream, shot backward and crushed his back against the wall. The lilac one cried out in shock and ducked down, darting in reverse in an attempt to escape the range of the massive guns. Their prey, bewildered and disoriented, whirled to see what had happened.

"What are you _doing?_" he screeched. Tantrum did not reply; his weapons swiveled on their gold shoulder mounts to maintain their aim on the two obtrusive jets. The answer was in his burning optics: eliminate threatening targets. The commander's words from the previous night still echoed in his processor – _A weapon's purest and only instinct is to kill its enemies… it does not question these urges…_

Starscream questioned those urges. A cobalt hand seized the bottom of each barrel and forced the enormous cannons to point upward, toward the ceiling. The weapon met his irate glare with mildly irritated astonishment. The seeker's high, grating voice came out strangled. "Stop – aiming – at – Decepticons!" He finally succeeded in deterring Tantrum's cannons; the gold robot flipped them back down to their usual hanging position behind him, and without their resistance, the seeker's hands flew up into the air for a moment before landing furiously at his sides.

Tantrum was dumbfounded. These two had come out of nowhere, clearly meaning to at the very least belittle the air commander, who was obviously trapped. And, in removing them from Starscream, he had done wrong?

His mentor seemed to understand his facial expression. "I can handle them myself!" he screamed, mere inches from the weapon's face, and Tantrum noticed for the first time how very much taller than him Starscream was. He didn't notice this out of fear, however; if anything, it incited him to rebel further. For the moment, though, he forced himself to not react. "Get this through your thick helmet!" the pale gray jet shrieked. "Don't ever touch me, don't ever pity me, and don't _ever_ defend me! I don't care what the circumstances are! I don't _ever_ want you to come to my aid! Got it memorized?"

The weapon nodded silently, complying, but his optics were flaring and his face had reverted back to its natural fierce scowl. He was good at putting on a façade. Since he was designed to kill and had no other purpose, if he could just appear sufficiently dangerous and hostile, nobody would question what was going on in his processor; he had learned that fact quickly during those few breems in the medbay, while the commander had been explaining things to him. If, in what he had said, Starscream had offended or hurt him, the weapon would be deactivated before he would let the jet know it. He was not angry or spiteful, though. Judging by the erratic readings from the jet's processor, by the carefully guarded blankness that usually occupied his dark face, by the burn marks in the walls and ceiling of their quarters, and by the dent in his throat that had clearly been caused by some sort of blunt impact – now that he looked closely, he could see finger impressions as well – something deeper was obviously taking place than the jet cared to admit. However, Starscream did not have the inborn position of feared superiority that Tantrum did, and thus, his mask of volatility was, from the viewpoint of someone experienced, far less believable.

Starscream wheeled and stormed off down the purple corridor, vermillion optics burning and cobalt fists clenched. The three robots watched him stomp away, grumbling to himself, and he rounded a corner before either of the two new jets turned their attentions to Tantrum. The pale blue one, who had calmed considerably since having a cannon jammed over his head, spoke first.

"I'm Thundercracker," he said in a voice much deeper than the weapon had anticipated, and that was somehow familiar. He jabbed a black finger in his counterpart's direction. "That's Skywarp. We report to your pal Screamer. He's supposed to babysit you, right?"

"Hang on a klik, TC," the black and lilac seeker cut in, "is this the mech you got from that crater?"

The blue jet nodded, cracking a devilish grin. "Screamer had to drag him out by the landing gear. It was hilarious." Skywarp broke into squawking giggles at the thought. Tantrum placed Thundercracker's voice at that point; he had whined to Megatron about not wanting to carry anyone back to the _Nemesis_ from Arizona. He had been hit and informed that he would carry the entire fragging crater if he was instructed to do so. "Our commander told you who you are, right?" the jet asked now. The weapon nodded silently, sinister glare never wavering. "Alright," the pale blue mech replied, a little more unnerved than a moment ago. "Look… I don't know how you're ever going to get on with Starscream looking after you, so I guess if you need anything, just ask Skywarp or me."

Apparently that was where the black jet drew the line. He picked himself up from the wall, optics widening and holding out his arms in opposition. "Whoa, whoa. What're you doin' throwin' me in there? That crazy thing just had a gun on my head that could swallow me whole! D'you honestly think I'm about to help him out with anything?"

"Oh, can it, Warp," Thundercracker snapped. "Obviously he didn't know who we were, and was jumping to the defensive. Although why he would want to protect Screamer is beyond me," he added in a befuddled mutter. "You must not have been around him long enough. Trust me, after a couple solar cycles with him, you'll want to saw your own head off. I'm sure there's a decent mech hidden somewhere in there, but I'll be dead before I find it."

"That, and he ser'sly needs to get his vocalizer replaced," Skywarp squawked. "Five breems and you'll want to tear out your audio receptors, it's so irritating. I do just thinkin' about it!"

The jets cracked up, leaning back against the walls to steady themselves. Tantrum expelled waste air through his vented black rubber abdomen in a voiceless groan of annoyance and slipped between the seekers, stalking off down the violet corridor. Raising a hand to his left shoulder, he popped a tiny golden ball out of place between the shoulder and chest plating. It was the top of a long antenna, which slid out to its full extension now that it had been released. He scanned the ship for Starscream's energy signature, ignoring the questions the black and blue jets shouted after him of where he was going. Honestly, he had no idea where the docking bay was, but if he locked onto his mentor's signal, he could find his way without a problem.

Predictably, the jets scurried to catch up and tail him. Of course they did; they reported to Starscream, which meant they were probably not Stunticons – whatever that meant – so they were also required to attend the training session. Tantrum located the familiar energy signature and made his way there as quickly as possible, ignoring as best he could the jets' derisive comments about their superior. From what little leaked into his disinterested audio receptors, Starscream was not very well-liked. Tantrum wondered why.

He arrived at last in a large, open area, where robots were buzzing about, all with the same lavender inverted-triangle-shaped insignia stamped somewhere on their bodies. As soon as the weapon entered the room, silence spread like wildfire, starting with those closest to him and polluting the room with nudges and urgent whispers. Tantrum didn't mind; he far preferred the silence to the pointless bickering he had been subjected to with Skywarp and Thundercracker. Starscream's recognizable screech was the last voice to fade, and as he peeked out between two lime green mechs, his gray face immediately fell into his trademark grimace.

"Decepticons!" boomed a familiar deep, gravelly voice, and the silver commander stepped forward. "May I introduce our newest recruit – the robot who was created to win the war for us – Tantrum. Starscream!" he called, and the jet, rolling his optics, scuttled forward to stand at his leader's side.

"Yes, o mighty Megatron?" he replied, sarcasm palpably dripping from his words.

The leader chose to ignore this. "Why don't you do your job and introduce our new weapon to everyone?"

"Because I don't want to," the jet retorted, but Megatron had already turned his back and was heading over toward a white and navy blue robot with a red visor. Starscream, grumbling, stepped forth and seized the weapon's arm, and he began to haul the pale gold robot around the room. He began to spout names and titles at random, and Tantrum did his best to label all the individual energy signatures the antenna was reading.

"Those are the Constructicons," the jet was saying, pointing out each one as he named them, "Scrapper, Scavenger, Long Haul, Mixmaster, Bonecrusher, and Hook." The weapon recognized the last in the list as the medic who had unlocked his stasis lock chip. He gave the lime green mech a silent nod, storing the designations in his databanks. "You've already met my subordinates Thundercracker and Skywarp, and let me just add," he suddenly hissed, whirling inches from Tantrum's face, "do not _ever_ think you have to protect me from them, or any of the seekers. I can handle them myself. Anyway," he continued, raising his screechy voice again, "there's the second seeker trio, Thrust, Ramjet, and Dirge." He indicated three jets, a red, a white, and a blue, and Tantrum figured the term "seeker" must mean jet-transformer. Starscream's cobalt hand moved to point at three purple and green mechs, who were identical except for the lens in the center one's stomach. "That's Reflector. He… they? Are Spectro, Viewfinder, and Spyglass. Oh… no, wait. I think… maybe _that_ one's Spectro, and _that_ one's Spyglass. Or… eh, they're all Reflector," he muttered, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. He moved on to jab a finger at a trio of yellow and indigo robots being herded by Long Haul off the wall, which they had been chewing on. "The Insecticons, Shrapnel, Bombshell, and Kickback. They're not technically with us; we're just united in hating the slag out of the Autobots." The air commander then pointed at a group of five colorful robots flanking a tall, triangular-shaped door in the center of the far wall. "Motormaster, Drag Strip, Dead End, Wildrider, and Breakdown," he rattled off. "The Stunticons."

A robotic, monotonous voice emanated from behind the pair. "You might want to stay away from Wildrider," it said, and Tantrum glanced over his shoulder to observe the visored navy-and-white mech that had been occupying Megatron's attention moments before. Tantrum gazed an inquiry at him, and the robot added, "He's a little…" he flopped a hand back and forth to indicate wishy-washiness. "Psychotic."

Starscream stared at him with one optic ridge raised, plainly baffled by the mech's lingo. "This is Soundwave," he screeched. Tantrum nodded; his processor recognized the computerized, mechanical voice from the crater. Soundwave's processor readings were unusually strong, practically leaping out at him; was he telepathic, able to connect with others' processors? "He rarely says anything colloquial like that." There was a pause, in which Starscream considered the navy mech. "In fact, he rarely says anything at all."

"You speak enough for the both of us, I'm sure," the visored robot droned. Tantrum cracked a grin. His flying counterpart bared his teeth in a vicious snarl. The weapon would have given him a pat on the back, but he now knew better than to attempt to touch or console the seeker.

The silver commander appeared behind Soundwave, looming over the gold weapon and smirking ominously. "Starscream," he growled, and the seeker grimaced. "Transport our weapon. Decepticons!" he thundered to the room, and the weapon flinched at the sudden volume. "We depart immediately! Skywarp, raise the docking tower!" Tantrum whirled in surprise as behind him, a door snapped shut. The room seemed to be rising into the air for a time, and when it came to a rest with a lurch, the door on the opposite end of the room – the one flanked by the Stunticons – folded down and outward to reveal a cloudless blue sky on the other side. Their commander turned to face his troops and boomed, "After me!" With that, he kicked up into the air, soaring deftly out the triangular opening.

Tantrum's surprise at Megatron's flying departure must have shown in his face, because in front of him, the Constructicon Hook spoke. "That's the only thing you're lacking, sadly," he informed the weapon despondently, "a propulsion system. We could design one for you, but I believe your protoform isn't strong enough to support all the weight of the equipment, and your armor alloy is likely too heavy for flight. Pity –if you only had that, you would be completely invincible."

"Well, that's just the most depressing thing I've ever heard," Starscream cut in sarcastically. He motioned for Tantrum to get behind him. "Grab the bottom of my wings," he instructed in a curt screech. "When I take off, you'll be on my back." Already, the docking tower was mostly empty of its former occupants. The gold mech complied with his mentor's directions, and as the jet kicked into the air, the wings flipped upside-down. Tantrum found himself suddenly gripping the top ridge of the wings as Starscream swiftly transformed right under the weapon's hands into an F-15 jet and blasted away.

The instant they passed through the door, the outside wind slammed into them, making the seeker tilt to maintain his course, and Tantrum abandoned the idea of holding the seeker's wings. He flattened himself against the sleek pale gray body of the jet, wrapping his arms tightly around the fuselage, covering the cockpit canopy with his chest, and he gripped his knees snugly around two cylindrical protrusions of some sort on the seeker's back. Below him, the blue waters of the Pacific stretched like an endless blanket, and above him, the cloudless sky sprawled over an interminable expanse, broken only where sky met water on the distant horizon on each side. Starscream shrieked something about getting "the frag off my cockpit before I crash, you witless slag heap," and the weapon slowly forced his arms to raise his body off the smooth gray metal. The moment the wind had enough lift under his abdomen, his upper body was swept up and backward; for a fleeting, horrifying instant, the weapon thought he was about to plummet to his death, but the bright blue tailfins caught his shoulders, and his grip on the seeker's back between his knees prevented him from losing his legs. Ahead of him, he could see a stretch of sandy beach approaching fast; now it was underneath him, and they were soaring over an expanse of deciduous trees. Starscream diverted more power to his thrusters, and with a kick of energy, he lurched forward, zipping past the other Decepticons and catching up with Megatron effortlessly.

Not without considerable struggle, Tantrum raised his arms to hold them out horizontally; if the weapon could ignore the vivid blue nosecone and shining golden cockpit canopy in front of him, he could maintain the illusion that _he_ was the one flying. Tantrum thought he was beginning to understand what Starscream meant when he'd declared that no one was allowed to lay hands on him; only when he was completely unrestrained could he possibly feel this… free… another burst of wind hit them, and the seeker adjusted his rudders and tilted against the gust. With a thrill of alarm, Tantrum wedged his shoulder cannons between the sapphire tailfins and kicked his legs forward to hook onto the front of the pale gray wings. It was an emotional tug of war between absolute euphoria and absolute terror, the tides turning back and forth sporadically, with no transitional gray area. The weapon was sure his energon converter was about to explode.

Before Tantrum's insides had the chance to self-destruct, however, his ride began to descend, heading toward a clearing in the forest, and the weapon was upright and safe on solid ground before his processor had even realized it was over. Starscream wrenched himself out of the weapon's grasp, strutting away imperially before his golden bunkmate had a chance to regain his equilibrium. Megatron placed a black hand on the weapon's shoulder plating, helping the gold robot to steady himself and chuckling at the seeker's irritation.

"Isn't it so comical when he is upset?" the commander snickered. "I am sure that's the only way you will learn to live with him – to constantly irritate him for your own amusement. Otherwise, you will just have to kill him. And what a pity _that_ would be," he added sneeringly. The weapon refrained from furrowing his brow in puzzlement; even the commander seemed to hate Starscream. Why? Certainly, no matter how surly and annoying the seeker could be, it wasn't worth _that_ much loathing…

The silver leader began to steer Tantrum toward the edge of the clearing, where two of the Constructicons – his antenna told him they were Mixmaster and Scavenger – were setting up some sort of temporary station. Unexpectedly, the weapon found himself averse to having another mech's hands on him, especially in such a controlling grip, so soon after feeling the freeness of being in the air. "So," Megatron boomed loudly enough for anyone – indeed, nearly everyone – to hear, lightly shaking the weapon's shoulder, "how did you like flying?" When Tantrum gave a disinterested nod, more concerned with the increasingly growing desire to shoot that hand off his chassis than with the commander's question, the silver warlord seemed pleased. "You see?" he bellowed, more for the audience than for his smaller gold counterpart's benefit. "It is not so bad that you have no propulsion system. You do not need one. Simply because one robot can fly does not mean he has any noteworthy advantage over another." He glared over his shoulder at the troops behind him, saving a particularly vicious sneer for Starscream. The jet rolled his optics and turned his back on the commander, screeching out a command for the others to form a single-file line across the border of the clearing.

Megatron, after clapping a hand on the weapon's shoulder quite a bit harder than he would have liked, strode off toward the station Mixmaster and Scavenger had assembled. Tantrum observed Starscream with a countenance of mild confusion. The seeker was dishing out orders like he was the one in charge, strutting about the field with his broad shoulders thrown back proudly, making impatient gestures and snapping curtly at the Decepticons that had not yet fallen into place. Last night in the medical bay, Megatron had introduced the jet's rank as the air brigade commander, but that couldn't possibly be quite correct; from the way Starscream was behaving – not only that, but the way everyone else, albeit grudgingly, acquiesced to his direction – he must have held some higher position to maintain that level of authority over the others.

The seeker Thundercracker passed by him to stand on the far left end of the line, next to Skywarp. He gave a half-smile and a nod, which Tantrum did not return, more out of distraction than spite… but perhaps, he realized, the seeker _did_ deserve to be ignored after the way he had talked about Starscream behind his back, although this practice did seem to be the rule, rather than the exception. Skywarp responded to Tantrum's behavior by hastily turning his back and hunching his shoulders, as if wishing to become invisible. His pale blue counterpart noticed this reclusiveness and sniggered derisively, nudging the black jet with his elbow.

Soundwave also silently observed the pale-colored jet slowly but surely reining everyone into the traditional single-file line, shoulder to shoulder, facing the opposite end of the clearing. Ugh, that squeaking, raspy voice was nauseating; not for the first time, Soundwave internally appreciated the rare moments when the jet shut up for a change. The navy mech strolled around the rest of the troops and made to cross in front of Tantrum, on his way toward Megatron, when a pale gold hand appeared in front of him. Finding his path effectively blocked, the radio-transformer glanced downward at the robot obstructing him. Unperturbed, Tantrum met his visored gaze. He motioned for Soundwave to bring his audio receptors closer to the weapon's altitude, and the radio-transformer silently obliged.

When the voice issued from the robot's pale lip components, it was exactly the same deep, mellow drawl of the mangled mess in the crater, but now, it was strangely hushed, as though the newcomer was averse to being overheard. "What is Starscream's rank?"

Soundwave, in his mechanical drone, replied in tones just as low as the weapon's, respecting the latter's apparent wish for a muted conversation. "Starscream is the second in command of the Decepticons," he murmured monotonously. "Why do you ask?"

Tantrum waved that pale hand dismissively, giving a silent shrug and breaking optic contact. Soundwave stood upright, nodded his excusal, and departed in the direction of the silver warlord. The weapon moved to stand with Skywarp and Thundercracker, but did not integrate himself into the line, watching as the radio-transformer and Megatron met and discussed something briefly. So Starscream was not merely the head of the air brigade; he was the second in command of the entire faction. That made sense… but then, why had the silver leader not introduced him with this title? Admittedly, the weapon's knowledge of the inner workings of the Decepticons was extremely limited, and he saw no other option but to, for now, mentally shrug. Megatron stepped forward, and Soundwave retreated behind the constructed station.

"Decepticons!" he thundered, grinning from one end of his silver helmet to the other. "It is time for our target practice to begin! Fall into line!"

"They _are_ in line, o mighty Megatron," Starscream pointed out peevishly.

The tyrant glowered at his subordinate. "_They_ are," he agreed, "but _you_ are not."

"Neither are Soundwave and Tantrum," the seeker retorted, cobalt feet rooted to the spot.

"Soundwave has proven his aim accurate enough that he will be monitoring today's scores for the rest of you," the commander replied smoothly, motioning toward the radio-transformer behind the construct. "And Tantrum," the commander continued, gesturing with a broad sweep of his arm toward the golden weapon in front of him, "is merely present to observe. However, should your current behavior continue to be a problem, I would gladly have him join our training session with a live target." The weapon's gaze turned, surprised, to Megatron; the seeker looked livid. "So, Starscream," the silver leader growled, "I suggest that you heed my orders and fall into line, _now_." The seeker trod grumpily, but without further argument, toward the line, roughly shoving two of the Reflectors apart to take a position between them.

The silver commander stared down at the golden weapon. "You may find a place for yourself wherever you wish, although preferably, out of the line of fire," he murmured. "Hopefully, these drills will prove to be of some use to you in the future." With that, he stalked away behind the line, bellowing out an order for everyone to "take a knee." Immediately, and with a single motion, the troops in the line dropped, one knee on the ground, the other bent up into a kneeling position, all aiming their weapons at the trees on the opposite edge of the clearing.

A navy blue hand on Tantrum's shoulder would have made the robot flinch in surprise, had the energy-seeking antenna not detected incoming movement. Tantrum glanced up and over his shoulder into Soundwave's emotionless visor, his countenance an inquiry. The radio-transformer spoke. "You may retreat behind the scoring station with me. We hold an 89 percent chance of remaining uninjured there." Tantrum couldn't help but crack a small grin at the totally stoic voice in which Soundwave had announced this statistic. The fact that he was still 11 percent likely to get hit by laser fire told him how badly the Decepticons needed this target practice. Still smiling, he nodded his horned head in acquiescence, following the navy mech around the back of the metal construct. _This_ ought to be interesting.


	4. Apprentice Training Day

**Chapter Four**

**"Apprentice Training Day"**

Warmth. Nothing but warmth. It was more of a feeling than a vision, for he saw nothing, but the emotion – carefree, untroubled comfort and a peaceful coziness – were all that enveloped him. The feeling was enough that lack of any other sense – sight, smell, sound – didn't matter. No, sir-ee, it did not matter at all.

But wait… maybe he did see something… a darkness. Darkness that slowly became the shadow of a figure, and that shadow grew closer and closer, towering over him like Death itself, extending a cold, unforgiving hand and breaking straight through the protective barrier around him… but he was not afraid. Being afraid never helped anyone; letting his emotions get out of hand didn't get him out of a bad situation any faster. That had been a hard, long lesson to learn… and so, he refused to allow the warmth within him to dissipate. Still, the figure and the outstretched hand loomed ever nearer, until at last it touched him.

And it shook his shoulder.

"Sylvan," its scratchy Bostonian tenor murmured, "wake up. It's apprentice trainin' day, rememba?" The grip on his arm, gentle at first, grew firmer, and the shaking became more insistent. The figure repeated, at a louder volume, "Sylvan!"

The sleeping robot woke with a start, sitting up fast, a high-pitched grunt of surprise and mild alarm issuing from his vocalizer. Glancing around fervently, it took a moment for the robot to remember that he had lowered his visor, and as the beating of his energon pump slowed, he lifted it with a silver fingertip, optics glowing pure azure as he realized who the figure above him was.

"Oh," he murmured in a clear, bright voice, raising a hand to casually scratch behind the black chevron decorating his forehead. "Hiya Wheeljack."

"Hey, welcome back among the living," the white mech said dryly, external audio receptors lighting up with every syllable. "Ya think ya recharged long enough?" His silver counterpart grinned in response. Wheeljack shook his head, but his optics glittered as he chuckled. "Well, Prime's havin' a meeting with us in the main computer room, so c'mon."

"Okie dokie," Sylvan replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the berth, which Wheeljack had apparently opened during the silver robot's slumber. He hopped onto the bright orange floor, dark gray feet clanking blithely on the metal as he followed the engineer along the halls toward Teletraan-1.

The whole idea of "apprentice training day" was, in Sylvan's opinion, a little silly, considering that there was only one apprentice besides himself to be trained. Back home on Cybertron, many of the Autobots had been recruiting younger mechs to assist them in their various trades, but when Optimus had enlisted a battalion to help him search the recesses of space for alternative sources of energy, only two – Prowl and Wheeljack – had been invited to bring their apprentices with them. The objective of today's activities was to send these two mechs into their respective fields on their own, to prove that they no longer needed a supervisor, and were sufficiently versed in their subject to earn an official title – to be called "apprentice" no more.

As the white Stratos approached the main computer room, the gigantic orange door slid open with a hissing sound, and the two engineers strode inside. Not all of the Autobots were present; Sylvan's quick head count registered four – Optimus Prime, Skyfire, Prowl, and the second in command's apprentice, Scout.

"He-he-heyy," Scout greeted, sauntering to meet the two newcomers as they proceeded into the room, "well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty!" The apprentice's vivid lime green body was, as always, a jarring contrast to the bright orange walls of the Ark, but his casual, self-satisfied attitude was not at all out of place among the Autobots of his class; Scout's alternate mode was a T-top Chevrolet Corvette, complete with an enormous spoiler, Dayton rims, and underglow, all the same garish color of his chassis, and he felt compelled to remind everyone relentlessly that he felt he was the most beautiful creature on Earth. Tracks and Sunstreaker demonstrated a similar overzealous self-admiration, but Scout took it one step farther; once annually, he required the _Ark's_ Sky Spy unit to scan the latest model of his altmode and update his chassis, to keep him looking fresh and new.

Sylvan returned the Corvette's crooked smile, although his own did not reflect the chartreuse spy's self-importance. "Hey Scout," he replied jovially. "Ready for today?"

"I was _manufactured_ ready, my man," the Vette returned, grinning from one end of his helmet to the other. Sylvan half-believed this statement was actually true; Scout was overflowing with confidence.

"Alright, you two," the deep, gentle voice of Optimus Prime called, "if you feel you are adequately prepared, I will give you your instructions, and you may set out for the day. Are we settled?" Sylvan nodded; Scout simply smirked. Everyone gathered around Optimus where he stood before Teletraan-1. "Then let's begin. Sylvan, as your engineering task for today, I would like you to mix me a high-grade energon… what is the Earth term? Ah yes… from scratch."

Sylvan's trademark crooked smile grew wider. "Aw, shucks, O.P.," he said sheepishly, waving a hand dismissively, "you could've just told me I had the day off."

Prime's optics narrowed in perplexity, and Wheeljack explained as Sylvan cackled with mirth. "Where do you think half his brew comes from, Optimus? That's how he keeps himself occupied while I'm…"

"Cleaning up after blowing yourself to bits?" Sylvan offered. Wheeljack aimed a half-hearted slap at him, and the silver apprentice ducked, still cackling. "I've got a batch in cryo that'll be drinkable by mid-afternoon if I get it out now," he added to the commander, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cryo-freeze chamber.

Optimus raised his optic ridges. "Ah, Sylvan, I wasn't aware that you were what I believe the humans call a Brew-meister." The silver mech grinned in response as Wheeljack cracked up laughing. "Alright, if that is the case… ah, I do have an alternative task for you. Skyfire and I have been communicating lately, and have discovered that we share a similar grievance – our recharge berths are too small. It gets quite cramped, when you're a larger-sized mechanoid, you see." His optics twinkled, letting the other Autobots know it was alright to find that funny. "So yes, get your high-grade out of cryo, and while it thaws, bring Skyfire's and my berths into the lab and rebuild them to fit us. That is all I would like you to do for today." The leader considered, optics growing briefly fainter as he imagined the afternoon that await him. "Recharge and a cold energon," he murmured. "Sounds perfect."

Sylvan gave his commander a thumbs-up, declaring cheerily, "Okie-dokie, O.P!"

"As for you, Scout…" Optimus continued, turning his optics to the lime green apprentice, who was by now bouncing up and down with excitement. "Yes, it's the order that you've long been waiting for. Teletraan-1 has detected some heavy Decepticon activity in the Sonora desert over the past two days. I would like you to go check it out for me. Do you think you can take care of that alone?"

"Ah, Optimus, of course I can," the junior spy responded, and though his form was visibly alive with anticipation, his voice was smooth as could be. "There's not a single mission I can't handle. I work better by myself anyway – no offense Prowl, but Scout is not exactly a team player." Prowl nodded and rolled his optics, fully agreeing with that. "Let's get this show on the road, Optimus – I am _ready to go_!"

Sylvan didn't bother to point out to him that, when it came to spying in the desert, neon chartreuse probably wasn't the most convenient chassis color.

"Alright," the commander replied, a chuckle bubbling into his deep voice, "alright, hold your helio-horses, Scout. Don't forget there are other Autobots here as well, waiting to be assigned other tasks." The lime green Corvette put on a pouting face, but his limbs still trembled excitedly. "Wheeljack, though you aren't an officer, you are my chief engineer. Skyfire, you are the Autobot's most reliable form of transportation. Prowl, you are my strategist and second in command. Using your authority in these positions, without providing any sort of real aid or supervision, I'd like you to… hover… around our young apprentices. Do not offer any guidance or suggestions; act invisible. Only step in if you are seriously needed; we don't want anyone blowing up the _Ark_."

"Or getting _themselves_ blown up," Sylvan put in, grinning sidelong at Wheeljack, who shook his head and glanced away, though his shoulders were shaking with silent chuckles.

Scout, however, seemed to think that this comment referred to him. "Look Syl," he asserted, "I'm not gonna get myself blown up. I'm the youngest spy on this team, but I'm no amateur. In fact, I don't need any help at all."

"Easy, Scout," Skyfire soothed in his deep, calming voice, "don't get ahead of yourself. Make no mistake; your mission's not an easy one. Just take it slow. We'll all be watching out for you, and you'll have a nice, shiny title waiting when you get back."

"Skyfire is right, Scout," Optimus agreed, "this isn't about making a one-man show; it's about proving that you can be an effective part of this team. We're all in this together, understand?"

Scout didn't seem so pleased. "What, Sylvan gets to work all by himself here at the _Ark_, while I have to have a parade of mechs following me around and monitoring my every move?"

"Scout, chillax. You're overreacting again," Sylvan replied soothingly. "Your job's a lot harder than mine, and a lot more dangerous. Plus, considering your headstrong nature, it's natural that they'd want to keep a better eye on you than on me. What's the worst that could happen to me today – I'd fall asleep in a berth while working on it?" The lime-colored sports car had glowered at the comment about his being headstrong, but chuckled at the last, giving a small smile, which his silver friend returned. "Just chill. They'll only be watching from Teletraan. You'll be alone in the field, trust me."

This assurance seemed to effectively deter Scout's indignation. "Alrighty then," he asserted, chartreuse chassis seeming to inflate with pride. "Can I get to work now, then?"

"Seems like a reasonable request," the blue-and-red commander decided. His voice held a smile that the other mechs couldn't see behind the silver mouth plate. "Alright you two, I'll meet you both back here when the sun is setting in the sky. Take care of yourselves."

"Okie-dokie, O.P!" Sylvan hummed, and at the same time, Scout said, "Not a problem."

The lime green mech was already headed for the main exit when each of his arms was seized by a separate Autobot. Scout turned his head to see Sylvan on his left, and Prowl on his right. Heaving a huge sigh through his air vents, he figured it would probably be best to get Prowl's input over and done with, and then let Sylvan cheer him up. Staring over his right shoulder, he inquired, "What?"

Prowl stared back for a moment, silent as stone, and then one corner of his mouth came up as he furrowed his optic ridges. He sighed. "Well… nothing, I guess. Just… do as Optimus says, Scout… take care of yourself out there. You of all robots know how dangerous meddling with Decepticons can be."

Scout couldn't force himself to stay irritated with his supervisor. Much as Prowl had a tendency to be waaay too overprotective, and give speeches and detailed lists of instructions that were often too long to tolerate, he really did care for his apprentice. The Corvette met those concerned blue optics and smiled reassuringly. "I know, Prowl. I will."

This seemed to comfort the officer just enough to let his apprentice go. "I know I can't hang on to you forever," he murmured, mostly to himself, it seemed to Scout. "You've got to come into your own some time, and I guess that day is today." He held out a white hand, and Scout took it in his green one. "This morning, I shake your hand as your supervisor," Prowl said. "When you return, I'll shake your hand again, this time as your equal. Good luck out there today, Scout."

Scout smiled again, even more warmly this time at the prospect of being Prowl's equal. "Thanks," he said sincerely. Prowl nodded, and walked away, though it seemed he was a little… stiff, as though he had to force himself to move. Scout watched him go for another moment, then turned to Sylvan.

"What's up, Syl?"

The silver mech flashed a huge grin. "I'm just really excited, is all. I mean, think about… everything! Where we met, what brought us together, and all that's happened since then… it's just so amazing that we're taking this final step together."

"Haha, Sylvan, you make it sound all romantic," Scout chuckled, and Sylvan let out a short burst of his signature high-pitched bubbling cackle.

"Yeah, I guess I did… but it _is_ a big step. Just remember something today Scout, alright?" The silver mech threw an arm around his chartreuse counterpart's shoulders. "I'm making you a promise. If for some reason you don't pass the test today, I'm gonna flunk it on purpose. Just so that we can stay apprentices together."

The green spy was astonished, and let it show on his face. "But… Syl… why?"

Sylvan cackled again. "Cause!" he exclaimed, as if this should explain everything. "You're my best friend! If you don't make it, I won't leave you behind. You never left me behind, even when you could have. You're the one who made sure I didn't let go, even when things were looking their worst. So, if you have to stay behind, I'm staying too."

"Aw, Syl…" Scout didn't know how to reply to that. It took a few awkward, struggling moments before he could say, "Look, I'm making the same promise for you, okay? I won't leave you behind either."

Sylvan grinned. "I'll hold you to it."

Scout grinned back, and shook himself free of Sylvan's one-armed hug. "Ya won't have to."

The silver mech gave his friend one last slap on the back, pushing him toward the exit. "Alright, alright, get outta here," he said jokingly. "And don't let yourself get all worked up. Don't forget to chillax!"

"You too," Scout replied. "And don't get blown up by Wheeljack… again."

Scout exited to the spirit-lifting sound of Sylvan's rippling cackle.


End file.
